


In Dreams

by Chocopiggy



Series: Infinite Ironstrange [19]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Contemplation, Dreams, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Not dialogue heavy, One-Shot, Suicidal Thoughts, based on prompt, fluff?, lengthy, spans over a lot of time, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocopiggy/pseuds/Chocopiggy
Summary: The dreams that Stephen experienced were only reflective of what he suffered in reality, but then, some of them were completely out of the ordinary.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Series: Infinite Ironstrange [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696747
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using a prompt list!
> 
> [Prompt List](https://creativichee.tumblr.com/post/120992338495/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story)
> 
> Also tw: implied self-harm, suicidal thoughts/ideation. Stay safe my dudes. 💛

Stephen was always too smart for his own good. And so, when the real world failed to appeal to his sharper senses, he often retreated to one of the last places he could go to for some stimulation: his mind.

In elementary, he’d daydream about what he wanted to do after school. Play around with his friends, read up on something he heard older students talking about, study for an upcoming test, hoping he’d surpass his A- average (visual art was never his strong suit, and therefore brought down the rest of his grades).

He’d think about Donna, and Victor, probably also bored in their own classes, since all three of them were most definitely smarter than what the state decreed someone their respective ages should know.

On the swing-set, he’d imagine himself flying, as he propelled himself further and further from the ground. Then as a fearless pirate diving onto an enemy ship as he jumped off from the highest point he could reach, already gangly limbs flailing.

In high school, at first, he’d think about his classmates. Which ones he could have been friends with. Ignored the misogynistic nerds who painted themselves as quirky, hung around with the ones who actually cared about what they were studying. Remember conversations with them stretching from discussing test answers to cheats in popular video games.

Which ones he would consider dating. Realized that in thinking about guys in ways he apparently shouldn’t have done, attempted to align himself with the guy/girl relationship type in real life, keeping his supposedly sinful thoughts to his own mind. Occasionally frustrating, or heartbreaking. When those brave enough to make a move on him (did he really out himself so _obviously?_ ), he’d half-heartedly decline, fearing future consequences he couldn’t afford to risk.

By the eleventh grade, however, he’d think about all that could have gone differently with Donna’s death. His mind was no longer a safe space. It was filled to the brim with grief, and pain, and sorrow, and self-blame. He forced himself to stay focused in class, attempting to ground his spiralling thoughts with more harmful methods than healthy ones, leaving scars in their wake.

When he was forced into therapy in the twelfth grade, after his apparent self-destruction was discovered by some fluke, by correlation, he was forced back into his own mind. To _think and think and think._ And so, he faked some recovery, some healed emotions, anything to get out of therapy. As a bonus, however, he took up running on the therapist’s recommendation, which Stephen could honestly say was the only good thing that came out of that whole experience.

University was a whirl of studying late at the library, tense family visits, and alcohol at parties. Dating other guys for the first time, and suddenly shunning his family (after they had shunned him first). His dreams would show revolving slideshows of cell division, the laws of motion, memories of hurried sex in strangers’ dorm rooms, in the rare times he actually slept.

Medical school, Stephen’s eidetic memory and obsessive personality served him well in deep slumbers after days of neglecting his own health for the purpose of studying to serve others. He worked his hardest to keep irritating classmates out of his head, though when professors made them work together, it just couldn’t be helped if Stephen held certain distastes for them, even in his dreams.

Similar thoughts were what through his mind in residency, and finally, _finally_ becoming a doctor, eventually neurosurgeon. Intermingled with the deaths of patients he witnessed firsthand, marking them as failures and vowing to always do better. Feeling that pain stacked up almost every time he prepped for yet another surgery. Then the comfort came. Which was his biggest mistake.

With every successful surgery, Stephen couldn’t help but notice how gratifying it was, how thrilling. And believing he had suffered enough for years, allowed himself to fall back into that arrogance, and fearlessness, and recklessness. For a while, his dreams revolved around awards he had earned, materialistic desires, with underlying guilt and ever-increasing fears he shoved aside.

Then came the crash. And everything went down with it. His pride, his certainty of the future, his _hands._ And his work. And when he couldn’t work, he was once again forced to _think,_ this time from the comfort of a hospital bed. _Oh joy._

There were moments he didn’t want his mind plagued with despair, and sorrow and grief, and all the horrible things that had built up. He watched the world pass by without him. What he used to be. Counsellors told him it would _take time,_ to recover and be able to think normally again, for whatever future he had left.

He didn’t _have_ time. Couldn’t they tell? And so, for some time, he thought of easy ways out. And one time, he acted on those… impulses to end it all. Delirious from the excessive drugs and alcohol running through his system, he dreamt of fields of flowers, and hands without scars, and his sister’s bright smile.

He was brought back from his momentary peace abruptly, feeling someone stick their fingers down his throat, and the unassailable urge to retch. Groaning, he lay back on the floor, seeing someone’s face blearily above him. Could vaguely hear someone’s voice telling him to hold on. _To what?_

From there, his dreams involved sickly smells and despair and long empty caverns without light. Waking up, he saw Christine in a chair by his bed. _Well, as long as I’m not in the hospital._ He shifted from where he was laying down. When she heard the movement, her eyes moved to him, narrowing. “Are you crazy?”

Not feeling like explaining himself, he swallowed. She got up, and retrieved a glass of water from the nightstand, holding it for him as she helped him drink. Continuing when he didn’t respond, she asked again. “No, but really, are you actually crazy? You’re lucky I didn’t put you in a mental institution, or even the emergency room. What the hell were you thinking?” This last question came out in a pained whisper.

Pulling the glass down from his lips, Stephen sighed, staring at his hands. “I just… need this to be over. For real. My hands are _g-gone,_ I have _nothing left._ ” At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to have the earth swallow him whole.

Christine stared him down. Inhaled, exhaled. Her voice was shaky. “Y-you have your _whole life_ in front of you. And it may not be anything like what you were expecting, or without pain, but since when does anyone’s life go as planned?!”

“This is differ—”

“Trust me, it isn’t. You are still alive, and now you need to be _better._ For yourself, and for everyone else.”

“How—”

“You may not be able to operate anymore, but that doesn’t mean you are _any less important._ You need to get your shit together, or then you’ll truly have _nothing._ ”

Stephen looked up at Christine finally. Her eyes were full of determination, and resolution, and fear. He could only think of his own fear, and shame. But for the first time in a very long while, he felt the will to live.

“I-I need to be better.”

Christine nodded. “And nothing less.”

Later, when Stephen found the file on Pangborn, Stephen thought it must have been a dream. Some Eastern method that cured the _impossible_ injuries the man had suffered, allowing him to _walk_ again. So out of the realm of Western medicine and its abilities. Magical, even.

The journey to Nepal, then to Kamar Taj, was long and seemingly tedious. Aimless wandering with the hopes of any man in the crowd being able to direct Stephen to that last shred of hope, summoned from the darkest of places in his mind.

Once he got there, he barely had time to dream. He was all-consumed by training, and meditation that for once, allowed his mind to be wonderfully blank. When he slept, he astral-projected, to avoid haunting nightmares and dreams of his life from the past. The last thing he needed was to dream up some surgery, only to glance down at his hands and see the scars, the shaking.

Battles with other sorcerers came and went, the death of the Ancient One, her ghostly figure stained the back of his eyelids, her quiet smile and pained eyes. Dormammu, leaving Stephen with dreams of purple, stained with green. Being hurt, and killed, over and over again, until he couldn’t tell what was real, even months after that accursed time-loop he trapped himself and the inter-dimensional monster in.

Some peace, guarding the New York Sanctum. Dealing with the Thor-plus-Loki fiasco. Stephen’s thoughts were of casual meetings with Christine, of gratitude for newfound purpose, of new things he read, new relics he used, more often than not the Cloak of Levitation involved. Some nightmares, during which someone would probably hear him screaming, and run in to wake him up. The remainder of those nights he’d stay awake, usually with tea, or a walk on the empty streets.

Then the Hulk came, literally crashing through the Sanctum, landing in the mess the staircase became. Meeting Tony Stark, the world’s Greatest Defender, the Iron Man (apparently also the man of _several_ titles, Stephen thought sardonically). Getting stranded with said-man and Spider Man (a teenager?) on an alien ship, then an alien planet.

Using the Time Stone to look at over 14 million possible futures. Perhaps ‘look at’ wasn’t the right term, however. More like opened up, explored, lived in, played with, _experienced, remembered, engrained, hurt, hoped, spiralled, broke—_

“Hey, you’re alright. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

And suddenly Stark was the only thing keeping Stephen from collapsing. _Anthony Edward Stark,_ born May 29, 1970, loves Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts, and Peter Parker, his mother Maria, his robots DUM-E and U, Jarvis, FRIDAY—

“You alright?” Tony’s soft voice interrupted Stephen’s thought process, automatically bringing to light all the knowledge surrounding the genius’ life. Stephen stared back, into warm brown eyes expressing concern, fear, determination, all too similar to Christine’s from _ages_ ago, and yet spectacularly different.

“I was looking at all the different outcomes of the upcoming conflict. All possible futures.” Stephen thought back to gruesome deaths of others he lived through first-hand, feeling all the sorrow as if they actually did happen. No doubt he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while without remembering the pain and anguish accompanying those lives. Maybe the little joys could be worse, however, feeling happy from events that never happened.

“How many did we win?”

“One.”

The upcoming battle was strenuous, and painful on Titan, and going exactly the way Stephen saw it happening. Then losing, dealing with what they had, before inevitably turning to dust. He only thought of Tony in those last moments, silently willing the man to do what he must in the next five years, when Stephen, Peter, and the so-called ‘Guardians’ inevitably disappear.

In the Soul Stone, all his thoughts came to life. He saw crushed Lamborghinis, and his sister Donna, and scalpels and dead patients, Christine, _every single one of the Avengers,_ all willing to do what was right. And Stephen allowed himself time to grieve. He knew he had quite a bit of it before they’d be snapped back into existence.

The final battle was messy, Thanos’ army versus the Earth’s greatest defenders, plus whoever else was brave enough to join. Stephen knew all the details of each person’s (and creature’s) life here, both in this universe and in so many others. Held great admiration for most of them.

When Tony snapped, that final act of fearless sacrifice, Stephen stared at the ground. He had no idea if Tony would live or not. Several of the possibilities led to this _exact_ moment, and depending on how Tony built in his own gauntlet, he could have suffered an excruciating death, or lived just enough to carry on with the rest of his life, with Pepper and Morgan and the team. Finally earned peace without punishment.

Hearing tired cheers, sighs of relief, he finally gained the courage to look back up. Tony was most certainly injured, but not beyond repair. One of those miracles Stephen had dreamt of. Frantic movements on the field to heal the wounded, start transport, even cleanup.

Finally, being back in the New York Sanctum, he couldn’t get Tony out of his mind. _Not dead._ Stephen felt he should have apologized for setting the path the engineer had to suffer through, to save the entire damn universe, but he felt that for more selfish reasons than anything. He just wanted to talk with the man, understand him, be friends, lovers, something, anything.

But that possibility was in fact limited to his own memories, experiences he’d lived through the time stone. This life was meant to be lived in solitude, where others could be happy in place of himself.

Stephen felt around the room he was in. It seemed to be getting surreally dark, blinding even. Black pooled in from hidden corners, filling light spaces, moving to curl around the sorcerer, leaving him drowning in his own agony, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Stephen woke up gasping. He rubbed his throat, feeling as though he were underwater not a moment before he reached consciousness. Groaning, he lifted his t-shirt (well, his husband’s that he stole) to bury his face in, hoping to wipe off at least some of the perspiration.

Hearing mumbling next to him, he glanced over, smiling as he reassured himself. Tony was slowly waking up, probably after hearing Stephen’s little freak-out. Eventually, those brilliant dark eyes blinked open, accompanied by a tired smile. “You okay babe?”

Stephen nodded back, leaning in to kiss Tony’s forehead, inhaling his all-too-calming scent of motor oil and coffee that followed the man everywhere. “Just a terrible dream,” he mumbled.

“Come back to sleep, I’ll keep you safe,” Tony promised.

Stephen grinned, moving to lay in his love’s arms. “I’m sure you will.”

Falling back asleep, he continued to dream of mystical threats and comic book superheroes, but newly reassured those realities could never come close to what he had in this one.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey my guys, gals and non-binary pals! Hope y'all are doing well.
> 
> OMG. This fic took absolute ages to finish. It was meant to be just another quick one-shot (like some I've already published) about Stephen thinking Tony being for him is only something from his imagination, and then "oh my gosh, he actually likes me, what?"... that type of thing.
> 
> But then this happened. I hope you enjoyed reading it! The next chapter of Stark Authority comes out tomorrow! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. 💛
> 
> [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/itschocopiggysart/)  
> [Tumblr](https://chocopiggy.tumblr.com/)


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